


A Murder in the Kitchen

by Brynn_Jones



Category: Nero Wolfe - Rex Stout
Genre: Case Fic, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 13:15:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3328040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brynn_Jones/pseuds/Brynn_Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After yet another woman is murdered in their brownstone, Mr Wolfe throws a childish temper tantrum leaving Archie to deal with the cops himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was half past six on a Friday evening that found me mulling over our feeble bank account balance as I was walking down the West 35th Street on my way back from a pre-scheduled visit of the National Bank of America. I was about two hundred feet away, when I noticed the commotion in front of our brownstone. I didn't know what had happened but I could tell it was nothing good, since our porch was crawling with policemen coming in and out of our home and the sidewalk was full of reporters.

I noticed a few homicide cops amongst the ruckus and an excited Lon Cohen in the crowd of newspapermen. This could literally mean only one thing and I didn't like it one bit. In the past three years, it's happened exactly twice that a person was murdered in our brownstone and on both occasions, it took days for Mr. Wolfe to recover. First it was Miss Bertha Aaron, a confidential secretary of one of the most respected law firms in New York, strangled with Wolfe's necktie while we were up in the plant rooms discussing whether we wanted her as a client or not. Then, a year later, it was Miss Cynthia Brown, a young girl who had seen her friend's murderer and had managed to tell me exactly and only that, before she got herself offed.

And now here we were again. I straightened up a bit and headed straight for the closest dick to ask him, "So, what happened here?"

He was curt with me. "I can't tell you that, sir."

"Sure you can, I live here."

He didn't budge. "Yeah well, anyone could say that."

I wanted to give him a piece of my mind about general politeness, when I noticed Purley Stebbins standing a few meters away and decided it wasn't worth the trouble. "Hey Purley!” I called instead. “What's going on?"

A pleased smirk appeared on his face. "Oh don't you know? There's another dead woman inside your little love nest."

I had thought he was going to say that, but I still got a sinking feeling in my stomach. "You're kidding right?" I asked, though I knew it was pointless.

He shook his head amusedly. "I couldn't make this up even if I tried to. I don't have that big of an imagination, Goodwin."

I opened my mouth to say something else but couldn't think of anything appropriate, so I shut it again and followed Purley into the house. He led me through the hallway and straight into the kitchen. The sight that greeted me in there would've probably been quite amusing had it been in anyone else's house. There, in the middle of the floor, lay a woman with a kitchen knife sticking out of her chest and over her body stood Lieutenant Rowcliffe with smirk on his face, writing in his little leather-bound notebook.

I couldn't help but remark on it. "Oh dear, I don't know which is worse, the dead body on the floor or you standing over it, looking happy."

He turned to me. "Ah, we've missed you, Goodwin. You murdered this one too?"

I didn't grace that with an answer, since the rightful murderers of the other two girls were currently eating porridge in one of our finest women's prison facilities and Rowcliffe knew it. Instead, I shrugged and took a look around our kitchen. There were unfinished sandwiches on the counter, and five plucked pigeons on a tray, waiting to be stuffed. I sighed. "Well, at least I already had lunch today."

"I didn't realize murder was something to joke about," the lieutenant snarked and I thought it was kind of hypocritical of him, since he had been the one smirking just a moment ago. I was just about to remark on it, when I heard the unmistakable voice of Inspector Cramer giving out orders out in the hallway, and decided he would be a tad more pleasant to talk to. I left Rowcliffe to his own business and went in search of the good inspector. I didn't have to look hard, because he was standing right outside the kitchen.

I waved him over and fired at him before he could ask me anything, "I have two questions, what happened and where's Wolfe?"

He looked me up and down and frowned. "Where were you?" he asked accusingly.

I sighed. "Look, Inspector, I know this is the third time you've been called to investigate a murder in our brownstone and I respect that you're running the investigation here. Right now though, you don’t have any reason to suspect me, nor can I tell you why she was murdered. Now, I suppose you'll want our full cooperation, so why don't you give me what you have so I can properly cooperate?"

He sized me up again but found no fault with my reasoning, so he emptied the bag. The victim came to our brownstone at approximately quarter past five and gave Fritz Brenner the name of Sarah Parker. Our cook, and an occasional doorman, seated her in the front room and went to prepare the French-stuffed pigeons we were about to have for dinner. At exactly twenty to six, Fritz started feeling sorry for the poor woman, who was left sitting in our front room till Wolfe came down, so he went to offer her some homemade sandwiches. She accepted his offer, but insisted she’d join him in the kitchen and keep him company. At five to ten, the doorbell rang. When Fritz went to answer the door however, there was no one on the porch, nor was there anyone on the sidewalk. Fritz looked up and down our street but didn't see anyone who might've wanted to enter our brownstone, so he went back inside. As he passed the back door, he noticed it was opened, so he closed it again and then entered the kitchen. The sight that met him wasn't pretty. Fritz had barely managed to call Mr. Wolfe before he hit the floor, fainting.

"The fat genius managed to rouse him with a glass of bourbon, called our office to tell us what happened and went back upstairs to lock himself in his room. He refuses to talk to anyone, unless they have a warrant," Cramer finished his tale and frowned at the ceiling as if he could see right through it and glare at Wolfe.

I made a broad gesture with my hands. "Oh, well then, maybe he'll talk to me,” I said and started down the hallway towards the stairs.

The inspector called after me, "Wait Goodwin, I'm coming with ya."

I turned back to look at him. "Look, Inspector, with all due respect - if he hasn't talked to you ‘till now, he's probably not gonna suddenly change his mind. So you being there with me wouldn't help anything. I promise that if I manage to talk him into communicating with you, I'll bring him down to the office."

Cramer sighed but didn't say anything else, so I ascended the stairs and went to knock on Mr. Wolfe's door, announcing myself, so that he wouldn't ignore me. He didn't answer but there was some shuffling to be heard, so I wasn't worried too much. After at least two whole minutes, the lock finally clicked and I could stick my head in. I say I could stick my head in, because the rest of my body couldn't fully enter until I climbed over two bedside tables, an armchair and a wooden chair.

"I see you've actually barricaded yourself in here, sir. You expecting a cavalry?"

He just scowled at me in answer.

I went on, "I don't know if you noticed but there's a dead body in our kitchen, Fritz is useless and so are the pigeons we were about to have for dinner. The whole place is crawling with cops and I'm all alone to deal with it, so if you think you could grace us with your presence downstairs and talk to the nice inspector-"

"Archie, sit down," he ordered.

"Or we can just stay here and chat," I acquiesced.

"I'm not coming downstairs and I'm certainly not going to talk to the police."

I sighed. "Why is that?"

Instead of answering, Wolfe pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it over to me. It was a common telegram paper from Western Union, folded in half. On it was a short message,

_"I wish to consult you today_

_evening for I fear for my life._

        _Miss Parker"_

As telegrams went, it wasn't very informative, nor was it very imaginative. I looked at Wolfe to gauge what he was thinking but he was just scowling at me.

"You do realize Parker is most likely not her real name, don't you?" I asked with raised eyebrows.

"Of course."

I nodded. "And you don't want the police to see this why? It's not like you could've known she was going to be murdered. She didn't tell you anything."

"No, but this, this feeble bit of paper is not only insulting, it's preposterous! What did she expect me to do? Find her soon-to-be killer and deliver him to the police before she even visited me? Pfui! The police mustn't know of this. A woman ordering me around. Did you read it? I wish to consult you, she says, what the devil do I care?"

I bit my lip. "Alright, I can understand that. What do you want to do now? You can't play dead for too long, sooner or later the cops  _ will _ get a warrant."

He flailed his hands uselessly for a second. "Tell them I'm ill, tell them I went mad, tell them I'm expecting a fit of hysteria, tell them something, anything."

"They won't fall for either one of those excuses," I warned him.

"Well, invent something believable then, you're good at that."

I stood up and went over to the door. "Alright, I'll think of something on my way down the stairs. I'll tell Fritz to serve pancakes for breakfast tomorrow, so that he can shove them underneath the door. You want to stand up and lock the door after me?"

Wolfe got up slowly from his armchair and I grinned at him sarcastically. "Good night, sir."

I waited for him to lock the door behind me and then slowly descended the stairs. The way I understood things, Wolfe's pride was hurt by that telegram and he didn't want the police to know about it. He couldn't even talk to them, because he'd have to mention that Miss Whatever-was-her-real-name expected to get murdered, otherwise he'd be withholding evidence. As the situation lay and stood now, he was pretending not to be withholding anything and it was ridiculous. Especially if he expected to solve the case from inside of his bedroom before the inspector found a way to get him out of there and question him.

Inspector Cramer was standing at the foot of the stairs, hands on his hips and a cigar in his mouth. “Well?” he questioned. "Where is he?"

"He's not coming down. He said to tell you his sensitive mind and his pride has crumbled under the pressure of having a third dead body in as many years in his house and that he needs to rest. Sorry, I really tried."

"Yeah, right," he didn't buy any of it but he seemed to be too busy to argue with me, because he just moved his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other and left to talk to one of his sergeants.


	2. Chapter 2

I was sitting behind my desk, observing the commotion in the hallway and taking short breaks to get rid of the annoying journalists that kept ringing our doorbell while cursing the fact that I couldn't disconnect it, because every now and then it was a policeman trying to get in, when Purley Stebbins stuck his head through the door. He had a grin plastered on his face and I immediately felt like slapping it off.

He couldn't help but needle me a bit, "You don't have the murderer yet? I would've thought you'd be out investigating - isn't that what you private investigators do? Investigate?"

I rolled my eyes, decided to ignore his excessive use of the word investigate and shot right back at him, "Nothing to investigate. I killed her, remember?"

Purley scoffed at me. "You lazy bum. One day it'll really be you and we'll all think you're just joking."

I shrugged. "That's the idea. Have you already found out who she was?"

He raised his eyebrows and sat down in front of my desk. "Watcha playing at, Goodwin? She told her name to your Brenner."

"Yeah I know, but even you're not stupid enough to think that Sarah Parker was her real name, so who is she?"

He stared at me for a while, his mouth slightly agape and I realized he  _ was _ actually stupid enough to think that. "Oh boy. Oh boy, does Cramer know you're not working on it?"

He scowled, which told me all I needed to know. Not one to leave a friend in a pickle however, I decided to give him a hand - if only to show off. "Alright, Purley, I think I might be able to help you here. See, I'll call my dear friend Lily Rowan, give her a description and see if she recognizes the girl, ok? If you're lucky, she will."

"Why do you think your friend knows her?"

Ignoring the doorbell, which was ringing again, I answered, "Didn't you see her clothes? Whoever that lady was, she was loaded. She must've been running in the same circles as Lily is."

He didn't say anything but he did stop scowling at me, so I decided that was good enough for me and picked up the receiver. "Watch and learn," I said as I dialed Lily's number.

It took me and Lily only four and a half minutes to figure out our dead woman was Isabelle Boots, née Carlisle, a twenty-three year old heiress of her grandfather's fortune with a fancy address on East 26th Street. Not even a year ago, she married Mr. Henry Boots - a widower, whose late wife disappeared somewhere in the Caribbean four years ago and has been proclaimed dead last March, and a rich man with a majority share in a financial law firm. Isabelle spent most of her time sitting in Broadway theatres and strolling through Central Park with her best friend Sabina Townsand. Isabelle was apparently a nice girl who loved the luxurious life she led but was a bit naïve as to who she associated with. Lily thought that she's gotten ripped off by some stock broker at the beginning of this year but she wasn't sure. She wasn't sure about the stock broker's name but thought it sounded something like Jay Carry or James Barry. I told all of this to Purley and sent him off so he could brag to the Inspector.

Not even three seconds after Purley left, the house phone rang. I picked it up. "You solved it already, sir?" I asked the genius.

There was a rustle to be heard on the other side before a gruff voice said,"Pfui, Archie. Do they already know who she was?"

I nodded even though I knew he couldn't see me. "They do. Do you want me to tell you?"

Wolfe made a soft snorting noise in answer to my ridiculous question and just waited me out, till I finally lost my nerve and emptied the bag. I told him everything I've heard the police mention, filled him in on what Lily said and also complained about the constant ringing at our door, getting interrupted in the middle of my speech by said ringing. He listened carefully to everything I had to say, made a few humming sounds during my recount and when I was finished he barked out at me to get Saul to help me before hanging up.

I frowned at the receiver, suppressing an urge to stick out my tongue, deeming it too childish. You see, my employer never had a very good telephone etiquette but this was bordering on ridiculous. I decided to wait at least an hour before actually calling our favorite operative just to spite Wolfe, but I only stuck to it for five minutes before calling Saul.

I must have woken up our best operative, for the grunt that encountered me right after he picked up sounded like something between a dying moose and a hiccupping tractor.

"Sorry, wrong number," I told him, "I thought this was my friend Saul, not old MacDonald's farm."

"Archie?"

"Yep, it's me. We have a bit of a situation here. You free for a date?"

He grumbled something that could've been "I'll be right there" just as well as "I don't really care" and hung up on me before I could question him on it. I rolled my eyes making a mental note to talk to both him and Wolfe about what is acceptable social behavior and what is not, then went to the kitchen to check on the progress the police was making.

They were apparently hosting a party over the dead woman's body, because when I entered the kitchen, I caught Lieutenant Rowcliffe chuckling at something Sergeant Collins had said, while three uniformed officers chatted at our kitchen table and Purley Stebbins chewed on something he must've found in our fridge. I couldn't help but put a damper on their moods, because I felt that the idea of them enjoying themselves, while Wolfe was upstairs sulking in self-forced exile, was preposterous.

"You do realize you're practically spitting crumbs in her hair, Purley, don't you?"

Everybody stopped what they were doing and shot me an annoyed look. Rowcliffe was the first to voice his thoughts, "Look, Goodwin, the sooner you let us do our job, the quicker we leave your humble abode. So leave off for now and stop bugging us with your so-called wit."

I raised my eyebrows at him, deciding to up the ante, "Do you even know what ‘abode’ means?"

The only thing that saved me from Rowcliffe's wrath was, unsurprisingly, the doorbell ringing again. "Sorry,” I apologised, “I'd love to chat with you but I really have to get that."

After that, it took another four trips to our front door, shooing the reporters away, for me to finally see Saul's face on the other side.

"Well, well, well, you did say you'll be right here after all."

He gave me an amused look, not seeming to be the least bit tired as he took off his coat. "It took me a while to get through the crowd outside, you think you can bring me up to speed?"

I thought I could, so I told him everything he needed to know, omitting only the reason why Wolfe wasn't coming down.

We were sitting at my desk, when I finally finished my tale. Predictably, Saul looked intrigued as he leaned forward, keeping his voice quiet. "Alright, Archie. Now tell me, what's really going on with Mr. Wolfe."

I sighed. I hadn't got explicit instructions as to what to tell him and what to leave out, but I felt like Wolfe would want to leave the 'feeble bit of paper' to himself, so I gave Saul what I gave Cramer, "I told you, Wolfe's sensitive mind and his pride has crumbled under the pressure of having a third dead body in as many years in his house and he needs to rest."

He leaned even closer and whispered, "Do you think someone's listening in on us or do you just not trust me?"

I sighed. "You know I trust you with my life. But this business? It’s better if Wolfe and I keep it to ourselves."

Saul looked as if he wanted to say something else to complain, but the phone interrupted us.

"Nero Wolfe's office, Archie Goodwin speaking," I introduced myself.

There was an unfamiliar female voice on the other side telling me her name was Sabina Townsand and that she would like to meet with Mr. Wolfe. I told her to come at eleven the next morning because I thought there was a pretty good chance the police would be all done by then, she agreed and thanked me for my time, which I thought was nice of her, and we both hung up.

I looked at Saul, who was currently headed to answer the door instead of me for once, a pleased grin plastered on my face, and thought to myself that we might actually get something out of this after all. Sabina Townsand was loaded too, after all.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning my alarm clock woke me up after only four hours of sleep at exactly eight o’clock and I groaned. Nothing remarkable happened, so I tried groaning a bit louder and this time a car down on the street honked. It startled me so much I decided to skip my morning routine of whining about getting up and went straight to take a shower and shave.

When I finally made it down to our kitchen, there was an unpleasant surprise waiting for me -apparently I was the first one awake because Fritz was nowhere to be found, Mr. Wolfe doesn't wake up without our cook bringing him his breakfast at ten past eight and the rancid smell of Saul's first morning cigarette was also missing. I debated what to do for about twenty seconds and then decided that if we are to entertain Miss Townsand at eleven o'clock that morning, we should all get back to our normal routine as fast as possible and with as little confusion as possible.

It was a first for me. Not that I've never been in Fritz's room before, because there was a number of times in the past I had to not only go inside but also lead in a couple of cops, but it's never happened with Fritz present, let alone asleep. I decided that the safest and least intrusive way to go about this delicate business was to simply call Fritz name and see where it got me.

"Fritz?" I tried, barely above whisper, and realized right away that wasn’t going to work. I tried again, this time louder. Nothing. When not even my third attempt was successful, I decided to change tactics. "Mr. Wolfe decided to use our finest Iberian ham to make some ham and cheese sandwiches!" I called out.

I don't know if it was the tone or the words but Fritz shot out of the bad like a bullet. He went all green for a second, then looked at the clock and turned white. I decided not to remark upon his ability to change colors and went on to remind him of his responsibilities. Don't get me wrong, I didn't mean to be insensitive but I figured he'd be much better off not thinking about what he saw in the kitchen last night and concentrating on what should be in the kitchen this morning.

When Fritz was finally back on his track, I went upstairs to inform Wolfe that if he wishes to have breakfast and still be in the plant rooms at nine, he should get dressed first instead of eating in his pajamas as usual. He reluctantly agreed. Reluctantly, because he hates any changes in his daily routine, but he did agree, because when I told him what exactly it took for Fritz to get up, he felt sorry for him. I left Wolfe where he was sitting on his bed, unbuttoning his large yellow sleeping shirt and went on to wake up the last occupant of our brownstone. I found Saul snoring in the office on our yellow leather couch.

I managed to call him a sleeping beauty, kiss him on the forehead and poke him in the ribs before he finally woke up. "You are quite the watchdog, Saul,” I told him, “There could have been a dozen murderers dancing on Wolfe's desk and you would be still snoring away."

He rolled his eyes. "I woke up at eight when a car honked outside and I heard you shuffling upstairs. I let my guard down."

Now it was my turn to roll my eyes. "I don't shuffle, I strut, ask Wolfe."

"Yeah right, what's for breakfast?"

"PI lessons for you," I snarked.

He snorted and pulled out a Pharaoh cigarette. Before he could light it, I snatched it out of his grasp. "Eggs Benedict, they should be ready in about five minutes," I told him after glancing at my watch, then I stuck the smoke behind one of his considerable ears with the words "take this outside" and strutted out of the office.

I was almost in the kitchen when Saul called after me. "I still think you shuffle."

I didn't get time to shoot back anything witty because he closed the front door a second later, so I told Fritz that Saul likes his English muffins real crispy, which he does not, and volunteered to carry Mr. Wolfe's breakfast tray upstairs.

Wolfe was already dressed when I entered his room for the second time that morning. "Good morning, Archie," he greeted me.

I stopped in my tracks. "Did we not already bid each other good morning?"

He shook his head as he beckoned me towards him. He sniffed at his Hollandaise sauce. "Didn't you promise me pancakes?" I decided not to comment on that, and he just went on, "No Archie, if I remember correctly , you said something along the lines of 'wakey wakey you fat sunflower'."

I cringed at his wording. "I'm fairly sure I said large, not fat, sir. And good morning to you too."

He nodded as he inspected his silverware. "Any news concerning Miss Boots?"

"Her friend Miss Townsand will call upon us at eleven. She's suitable as a potential client in regards of money, but as for her involvement in Isabelle's murder, I can't tell you anything."

Wolfe frowned. "What about the husband?"

I shrugged. "I understand that you'd much rather deal with a male client but there wasn't a peep from him all night."

Wolfe frowned even more. "Then we shall wait for him to call, I don't need another woman frolicking about this house."

"This is nuts, with how many women were already killed in this house. You do realize that people know you hate women? They might start thinking that you're killing them all off and then just blaming it on someone else. God knows you're genius enough to pull it off. I say we should take whatever we get at this point."

He didn't say anything to disagree, and I decided to take that as a victory.

When I got back downstairs, Saul was already back inside frowning at his eggs Benedict. I graciously offered to trade with him, but he told me he'd take whatever he deserved and we both finished off our breakfast minutes later.

The next two hours were busy for both of us. We were trying to clean up the mess we didn't have energy to deal with last night in order to prepare the house for our guest. I'm not going to bother you with a detailed description of all of our chores, it would not only take up a whole lot of space but it wouldn't prove anything other than that we were both exhausted at the end of it all.

The doorbell rang only three minutes after Mr. Wolfe had come down from the plant rooms and sent Saul to the Front room so he could catch up on some much needed sleep, which didn't give us much time to come up with a good strategy.  _ Any _ strategy, that is. And as soon as Sabina Townsand sat down in our red leather chair, it was obvious we could've used one. She was good looking, in her late twenties and had a pair of very sharp eyes that gave you the feeling she could see everything.

She went straight to the point, "I want to hire you to find Isabelle's murderer. God knows that mingy old man won't give a dime to find out who did it."

"Mingy old man?" asked Wolfe.

"Mr. Boots, her husband, of course,” she explained, “If I didn't know any better I would say he killed her."

"But you know better?" Wolfe urged her.

"He doesn't have the courage, nor does he have the brains to do something like this."

Mr. Wolfe nodded slowly. "And what about you? Do you?"

She shook her head affirmatively without any hesitation. "Of course."

My employer pursed his lips slightly. "Miss Townsand, how do I know that you didn't murder your friend yourself?"

I had to give it to her, she didn't even flinch. "I'll tell you this, if you find out it was me, you can tell the police and you still get paid. Is that guarantee enough?"

Wolfe frowned and looked at me. "Archie?"

I shrugged. "I believe her."

"That she didn't kill her?"

I looked him in the eye and said in the most serious voice I could muster, "That she would still pay us even if she did.”

Wolfe snorted in disgust. “Archie,” he barked, “did she kill her?”

I shrugged again. "I say she didn't"

"Are you sure?"

“No,” I bit back, getting irritated. I turned to Miss Townsand and asked her, "are you sure you didn't kill her?"

She gulped and looked disbelievingly at me. Her voice took on a choking quality when she answered, "Am I sure? Are you serious?" It was the first time she showed any kind of emotion that morning and I was inclined to believe her at that point.

"She didn't kill her," I told Wolfe.

He nodded with a satisfied expression on his face. "Very well, tell us what you know, Miss Townsand. Did your friend feel concerned about her safety?"

She frowned, immediately suspicious. "Why do you say that? Did she tell you anything?"

"No madam, I have never met her and therefore she couldn't have told me anything. This is a standard question," he explained. He was right, of course, it  _ was _ a standard question, which would normally be a reason for Wolfe not to ask it, since he hated doing anything standard or predictable.

"Yes but why do you ask?"

Wolfe scowled. "Miss Townsand, I am the one asking questions here, if you please. I assure you, there is a method behind my enquiries and those methods are what differentiate me from the police and presumably why you came to me. Would you agree with that assessment?"

I personally thought it was a bit hypocritical of him, since the question he had asked was a standard police question as he had just admitted, but I didn't comment on it. We live off Wolfe's reputation as a genius, so it would do no good to mess with it.

Miss Townsand apparently felt the same way. "Yes, of course. Pardon me. It's just, Isabelle seemed a bit off to me yesterday and I was surprised you asked about it."

"It wasn't an uneducated guess, I assure you. Your friend came to visit me, therefore it makes sense to assume she was in some kind of trouble. On the top of that, she ended up being stabbed to death. A fear for her life would be logical."

After that, it took us nearly three hours to squeeze every useful bit of information out of Sabina before she left, which left us with only half an hour to discuss everything before lunch. We found out that Isabelle was more or less happy in her marriage to Henry Boots, despite Sabina having her reservations about it. Our victim did have a few relationships other than her husband, though we were assured they were all purely platonic. One of these acquaintances was Mr. Ben Dursley, a stock broker from Jersey who had lured a certain amount of money out of Isabelle under the excuse of investing them and bought a very nice car for himself few weeks later. I made a mental note to tell Lily that Dursley sounds nothing like Carry  _ or _ Barry, as well as to take a good look at said car when I go talk to him.

Another one of Isabelle’s purely platonic amoreux was Major Carlos Sanchez, a Mexican soldier who had the misfortune of travelling on the Titanic, when he was twelve years old. I felt really pleased that a man twelve years my senior had the same military rank as I did, so I decided to be nice to him when I got around to questioning him. Wolfe and I also agreed that I should call upon Henry Boots just to see whether he noticed his wife was dead, as well as to ask him if he minded.

As for what our victim was up to the day she died, we had a pretty decent recount. She had allegedly got up at five o'clock because her maid woke her up when she’d dropped a vase right outside her mistress' room. Isabelle had spent the next two hours reading in bed, while her husband was happily snoring away. She had then called Sabina to set up a breakfast date and gone to her dressing room to get dolled up. We know all this because she had recounted her morning to Miss Townsand over their breakfast. She’d then told her she was on her way to check up on her grandfather's grave before she went to the Russian Tea Room to have lunch with Major Sanchez. Mrs. Boots didn't tell her friend what she wished to do after that but since she most likely went to the post office to send my employer that wretched telegram, it wasn't surprising. Isabelle then called Sabina at about four o'clock from the dance club Flamingo, where she wanted to hold her upcoming birthday celebration and was sealing the deal with the owner, to tell her she would be a bit late for their evening outing to the Central Park. That's most likely because she knew she was going to be too busy getting murdered to be bothered to come on time.


	4. Chapter 4

After lunch, when Wolfe sat down behind his desk to enjoy his fifth beer of the day and Saul went home to water his plants and bring back a change of clothes, I was sent to talk to Mr. Henry Boots and see if he fancied a visit to our brownstone. I flagged a cab on Ninth Avenue and told the cabbie to go straight to East 26th Street.

I rang the doorbell and had to wait for at least forty seconds before the door was opened by an elderly-looking maid with reddened eyes and a sad smile. I spoke respectfully, "Good afternoon, my name is Archie Goodwin and I would like to speak to Mr. Boots."

She nodded her head and invited me in, already reaching her arms out to take my coat. I smiled at her but declined her assistance, thinking she could use a bit of help. Looking back, I probably shouldn't have done that as she couldn't bear the kindness and started sniffling. I knew that if I didn't want her to bawl her eyes out, I had to do something, so I made a complete turnabout.

"You know what? You can take care of the coat, that's what you're here for after all."

She stared at me, looking deeply offended. "You are a very rude young man," she complained.

I nodded. "Yes, but you're not crying, so I am a very pleased rude young man."

She didn't get it at first but after finally hanging my coat, she figured it out. "I would have started crying, had you not shocked me by being so rude," she admitted with a sad smile.

I returned it and decided that since she was back on my side now, I could pump her for a bit of information on her mistress. I started off with a carefully modulated voice so that I sounded as pleasant and charming as possible, "Are you the maid that dropped a vase outside of Mrs. Boots' room the other day?"

This time she didn't even need a minute to gather her wits and replied right away, "No, that was Miranda, Miranda Davenheim, a very attentive young girl but a bit of a klutz."

I smiled at that. "Ah, and your name is?"

"Julia Brewster, I've been with Mr. Boots for fifteen years now."

"You like working here then?"

She nodded, apparently pleased that someone was interested in what she thought. "He's a bit difficult to get along with when you don't know him, I admit, but he's a kind person at heart and he really loved his wife."

"Isabelle?"

Her smile fell for a second before it professionally restored itself upon her face. "Yes, her too. I meant his first wife though, Eileen. A quirky little woman but Mr. Boots adored her. If you want my opinion, he never really got over her death and that's why he remarried so soon after, he needed someone to help him get through it."

I nodded sympathetically. "And how is he holding up now? You think he'd be able to see me?"

She smiled at me sweetly. "Come through here, Mr. Goodwin, and sit down in the living room."

We went through a narrow hallway, passed three oak doors, turned left and ended up in a large room with blood red walls adorned by all sorts of abstract paintings and cream white furniture that didn't have one dirty spot on it. Miss Brewster pointed me towards a sofa that had its back to a heavy-looking double door and left the room the same way we came in, presumably to inform Mr. Boots of my visit. It struck me as a bit suspicious that she directed me towards a specific seat, for I always did the exact same thing when I needed to maneuver our guests around the office so that their seating order would somehow benefit Wolfe and I - such as sitting a potential murderer where I could easily reach him. As soon as she left my sight, I therefore sat down in a leather armchair that faced the double door and waited for Mr. Boots to make an appearance.

He did so four minutes later, stopping in the doorway of said door to scrutinize me, realizing only a second too late that I could see him right back and that any attempt at a secret observation was therefore ruined. This only assured me in the fact that my suspicions regarding the sofa I was directed to weren't entirely nonsensical.

Mr. Boots was in his late forties, with a naturally lean figure, dark brown hair, blue eyes and a well-practiced smile on his face. "Good afternoon, Mr. Goodwin,” he greeted me, “My name is Henry Boots."

I stood up to shake his hand but because I don't react very well to people who try to outmanoeuvre me, I couldn't help but make a scathing remark, "I know it is, I came to see you after all."

It didn't faze him in the slightest. "Well remarked, Mr. Goodwin," he started with an irony-laced voice, "I also know your name as you can see, and I didn't even invite you."

I couldn't help but think that I had just screwed up my chances of persuading him to ever come to our brownstone and I felt admittedly bitter about it. I decided not to let it show though and continued on with a sympathetic smile, "I came to give you my sincere condolences, Mr. Boots. I am sure that you are familiar with the fact that it was my employer's house your wife was found in." I paused for a second so he could nod, and then continued, "What you are most likely not yet aware of is that Mr. Wolfe has been hired to investigate her murder.  I came to see if you felt ready to answer some questions of his."

He frowned at me. "On whose behalf are you investigating?"

We talked about this situation with Miss Townsand, so I didn't have any qualms answering his question. "On behalf of your wife's best friend, Sabina Townsand. She called upon us this morning."

His frown deepened. "What right does she have to get herself involved in this?"

I shrugged, suspicious of his anger. He had the best private detective in New York investigating the death of his wife and didn't even have to pay a cent or it. I would've been ecstatic if I were him. I'm not proud of it, but my feelings must've showed on my face, because Mr. Boots suddenly experienced a complete change of heart. "You said you came to ask me questions?" he offered with a painfully charming smile.

I shook my head. "No, I said I came to see if you felt ready to answer some."

He smiled at me patronizingly. "Same thing, Mr. Goodwin. The fact that you can remember your exact words and I cannot, doesn't make you any more intelligent than me."

I grinned at him, feeling encouraged by the fact that he hasn't yet thrown me out on my ear. "Of course not, however the point is, it's not the same thing. You see, I won't be the one asking the questions, Mr. Wolfe will."

He looked around comically. "Well, where is he? I don't see him sitting here ready to interrogate me."

"That's because you can't see all the way to West 35th Street, Mr. Boots. I assure you though, that he is in fact sitting in our office and is more than ready to interrogate you. You could see for yourself, if you wanted, you can ride in a cab with me."

He laughed, and for the first time, I could see a sliver of the man poor Isabelle had fallen in love with. He had such a sincere laugh that it would make an inexperienced woman go weak in her knees, had the mood been set right. "You are very good with words, Mr. Goodwin. I admire that."

I grinned at him again but since I wasn't a woman and the mood was still a bit sombre, my knees didn't do anything remarkable. I raised my left eyebrow at him and pointed towards the front of the house. "Lead the way then."

He didn't say anything, and then he just started walking and I was so surprised at his apparent agreement to come with me, that I didn't react for a whole second and a half. As I watched him put on his coat, I thought that Mr. Boots was either the least offend-able person in the whole world, for him to come with me even after I was unnecessarily rude, or the most mentally unstable one.

I decided to give the second option an eighty to twenty chance of being true during our cab ride, as Mr. Boots’ face changed with every hundred meters the car made. I could clearly discern sorrow, fear, uncertainty and even slight anger amongst his various facial expressions and there were at least three that I couldn't read. When we arrived to our brownstone, however, his face settled on mild curiosity and stayed there.

Wolfe was sitting exactly where I had left him, an empty beer bottle in front of him. He didn't even look up from his book, when I entered the office.

"Mr. Boots is in the front room, sir. You ready to speak to him or shall I tell him to wait till you finish your book?"

"Tell me what you found out and then bring him in," he told me, still not lifting his gaze from the page.

I did as he’d asked, giving him a verbatim of both my conversation with Miss Brewster and Mr. Boots, before seating our guest in the red leather chair.

"Mr. Boots," started Wolfe, "thank you for coming. I trust you know why you are here?"

He nodded after a brief consideration. "You wish to know about my alibi, don't you?"

My employer smiled patiently. "We will get to that, Mr. Boots. Archie says you own a law firm."

I looked up at the sound of my given name, feeling slightly surprised but pleased nonetheless. Mr. Wolfe doesn't usually call me Archie in front of our guests because he feels it is unprofessional but every now and then, when an unpleasant person crosses our way, he wants to show we are a united front and refers to me in a familiar manner.

Mr. Boots however either hadn't noticed or didn't care. "Yes, we specialize in financial law. It's probably not as interesting as it sounds but it satisfies me, though it could be better paid - one would think that being a majority owner of a company would make me majorly rich." At this point he laughed at his own joke. "But I'm not complaining, we led a comfortable life."

Wolfe nodded. "Yes, I trust your wife's inheritance helped matters as well?"

"That it did, but I assure you we could've done without it."

"I am sure. You had a happy marriage?"

He nodded vehemently. "Of course, I'm not going to lie and say we never argued, but we loved each other. I still can't believe she's dead, no one had any reason to kill her, I assure you."

I sighed inaudibly. If I got a lollipop every time I heard that sentence, I could bribe a whole school of children and still have enough to visit a kindergarten. Why do people always feel the need to say that, even though it completely contradicts the fact that someone  _ did _ in fact want to kill the victim, or else she wouldn't be dead.

Wolfe didn't comment on it though, moving on instead, "Did your wife have any problematic relationships with any of her acquaintances?"

Mr. Boots looked thoughtful. "I couldn't tell you. She was easy to get along with and, even though it pains me to say it, she was a bit naive. She always saw only the good in people and refused to acknowledge the rotten. There was some young man that kept pursuing her, if I remember correctly, but I don't even know his name."

That didn't help us in the slightest because there must've been hundreds of young men that looked Isabelle's way and at least half of them could've been pursuing her. The thing I was more interested in than some young Casanova, was Mr. Boots' alibi. However, when my employer asked about it, I was left disappointed.

"I was at my firm all afternoon, we had a bit of a crisis with one of our cases and we discussed it all the way into the night. I am sorry to disappoint you sir, but I couldn't have possibly done it. I hadn't left the conference room for more than five minutes, when I excused myself to go to the washroom."

I had to admit his alibi was not only bulletproof, it was airtight and waterproof too and if the police couldn't make holes in it, we wouldn't be able to either. The truth was, I couldn't imagine a middle-aged widower killing off his young, vibrant and loving wife anyway, so I just had to set my mind onto someone else.

Ignorant to my musings, Wolfe continued his interrogation, "I heard you had lost one wife already?"

Mr. Boots' face transformed itself into an expression of pain. "You are correct, Eileen, she is an absolute sweetheart. I never found out what really happened to her, they never found her body."

"She has been proclaimed dead?"

"Yes, she has. She is the love of my life and it is still very painful to talk about it. We went to the Caribbean to enjoy our summer vacation on a cruise ship, when during one night Eileen suddenly disappeared. No one knows what happened. Believe me, I will never go to the Caribbean ever again."

We wrapped it up pretty quick after that, because Mr. Boots had nothing more to tell us and Mr. Wolfe was only two minutes away from getting up and ascending to the plant rooms anyway. Before the eccentric genius left the office, he turned to me one more time, "Archie, call Fred and Orrie and ask them to come tomorrow morning. You yourself can spend the morning looking for Mr. Dursley and then bring him to see me."

I didn't even manage to respond before he closed the door and left me alone in the office. I sighed, called both of the mentioned operatives like the good lackey I was and then went to see what was cooking in the kitchen. Fritz was busy marinating lamb chops, puréeing cauliflower and baking sweet potatoes, so I poured myself a glass of milk and kept him company.

After dinner that day, Saul and I decided to go down to the basement for a game of pool to work on our friendship and talk about something and nothing. It was no surprise that after few minutes of idle talk, our conversation turned to the Boots case, namely the victim's husband.

"What's he like?" asked Saul in the middle of my stroke.

"Boots?"

He nodded in confirmation.

"He is that sort of person that you wish would lock himself up on a rooftop during a thunderstorm, wearing a copper armor. Yet you would do all you could to help him once the lightning struck."

He raised his eyebrows. "I expect that sounded better in your head?"

I squinted my eyes at him. "What's your point?"

He laughed at me, bending over the pool table a second later and pocketed one of his balls. He missed with his next attempt, which gave me an opportunity to finish the game by sinking both of my remaining balls and closing up with the Eight.


	5. Chapter 5

The following morning I got a call from Inspector Cramer asking me to come downtown for a round of questioning. He wasn't exactly polite in his request but since we needed to at least seem cooperative I agreed without too much fuss. I informed Wolfe of my plans with a short phone call to the plant rooms, put on a light coat and left with Fritz bolting the door behind me.

Once I arrived at the headquarters, I was a bit surprised to be pointed towards the inspector's office itself and not one of the interrogation rooms, but I wasn't complaining. Cramer had a nice leather settee in the corner of his office that was far more comfortable than any of the wooden torture devices the people in interrogation had the nerve to call chairs, and I was sure he would let me sit in it. I went up the stairs and even managed to exchange a few kind words with an agreeable looking receptionist before entering Cramer's lair.

Once I was properly seated, in the aforementioned settee, the questioning started, "Tell me, have you already found out what happened to Mrs. Boots?"

I raised my eyebrows. "Have you?"

Cramer put up his forefinger in warning. "Don't take that tone with me, Goodwin. I am determined to be patient with you but your comments would make a Buddha use his slipper as a murder weapon. I politely asked you a simple question and I want a straightforward answer."

I thought his Buddha remark should be rewarded, so I decided to give him what he asked for, "We haven't made much progress as far as I know."

Looking back, I should've stuck to my usual plan of clamming up. Had I known that my big mouth would get me into trouble, I would've never opened it.

"As far as you know? And what about your genius of a boss, does he know anything?"

I knew I had already gave myself away, but I decided to stubbornly stick to my tune anyway. "How would I know? You said it yourself, he's a genius, who am I to try and guess how his mind works?"

Cramer smiled at me smugly, standing up from behind his cluttered desk and pointing his thick forefinger straight at me. "You know something, Goodwin. Out with it."

I sighed theatrically before leaning forward as if I was going to tell him a secret. "Alright, I'll tell you. You have to pinky swear to keep it a secret though."

Cramer took a shuddering breath and didn't say anything, so I silently counted to ten with him just to amuse myself. He had to do it twice, and even then his voice shook. "Goodwin, if this is one of your jokes, I swear to God, I will have your license."

I frowned and quickly backtracked, I hadn't realized how wound up he actually was. I grinned at him, hoping to dissolve the tension. The situation was slowly getting out of hand and I didn't need Cramer to actually make good on his promise and take away my PI license. I decided to use a sentence that had once got me out of a pickle, "How many bruises do you have, inspector? I have two, one on my forearm here and the other on my-"

"Goodwin!" he shouted, loud enough that even the pleasant looking receptionist must've heard it, and I gathered that my strategy hadn't worked. "Enough! Enough or god help me, I'll clobber you over the head with something." He took a calming breath. "I want you to know that I know that Wolfe knows something and I want him to know that I know he's keeping it to himself until he's ready to let go."

I looked speculatively at him, thinking he must be quite a knowledgeable person to use so many 'knows' in one sentence, and decided to phrase my next words carefully, "The most boring thing happened to me just yesterday. Do you want to hear about it?"

He seemed suspicious but curious enough to encourage me to go on. "After Mr. Boots left our office yesterday afternoon," I started slowly, "the genius asked me to call Mr. Durkin and Mr. Cather. They must be at the brownstone as we speak."

Cramer eyed me skeptically. "You're not taking the piss out of me, are you?"

I shook my head no. "Of course not, I would never do that after that many 'knows' in a row."

Cramer sighed and rubbed a tired hand over his face. "You really are not a serious person."

I nodded. "And proud of it."

He shook his head, sinking back into his seat. "Anything else?"

I smiled at him, but since I don't usually make the same mistake twice, he got nothing else out of me.

When I finally got out of there, leaving Cramer to contemplate my comment in the comfort of his own office, I was feeling rather bitter about my situation, so I spent the next ten minutes amusing myself by stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, stretching my arms above my head and saying as loudly as I dared, "The warden let me out of the slammer for two whole hours. Geesh, I haven't seen this city in five years!"

I received a large collection of offended looks from the innocent passersby and one admiring stare from a five-year-old kid before I decided I'd had enough and went home.

By the time I arrived, Saul, Fred and Orrie had been apparently already instructed and taken their leave, for I didn't see either of them anywhere in our brownstone. I tried to squeeze something about their chores out of Wolfe, but all that I got in return was an impatient "Not now, Archie." and a suggestive "Have you already an idea regarding Mr. Dursley's whereabouts?"

I had to admit that I hadn't, and feeling properly chastised by that, I dialed Lon Cohen's number with no further ado. I caught my friend in a good enough mood, if his cheerful voice was anything to go by, so I felt hopeful about my inquiries.

"Cohen, The Gazette. What do you have for me?" he introduced himself.

I laughed at him. "Is this the normal way you answer your phone or did you know it was me?"

"Archie?"

"The one and only."

Lon snorted on the other side of the receiver. "Had I known it was you, I would've asked how could I be of assistance, god knows you've never had anything useful for me."

"That's not true, Lon, I'm sure I'd proved myself to be very useful to you in the past. I did give you an exclusive last month, did I not?"

I would bet my new pair of socks that Lon rolled his eyes. "Sure you did, Archie. What do you need."

"Mr. Ben Dursley, a stock broker, where can I find him?"

"Depends. What do you have with him?"

"I want to look at his car."

Lon's voice betrayed his confusion, "You looking for a new car?"

I grinned, for once glad he couldn't see me. "Lon, answers first, questions later. Where can I find him?"

He told me to hold for a minute and went in search for the information I needed. In my opinion, it took him an embarrassingly long time, considering Dursley might be connected to our victim’s murder. It was whole two minutes and thirty seven seconds before he finally returned and started speaking, "Ben Dursley, by the way, there are twenty three of them in New York, seventeen in Manhattan and two of them work as stock brokers, only one can afford a car though. He lives in an apartment on West 62nd Street but can almost never be found there for he spends his nights gambling in a bar on the corner of 46th Street and Eleventh Avenue, the name's The Landmark Tavern."

My eyes widened in remembrance. "I know that joint, I've been there once. And only once,” I remarked, “Trust me, there's a reason I haven't been there since."

Lon snickered. "Yeah, I’ve heard about it. So, now for my questions."

I promptly interrupted him. "I don't have time for that, sorry. I do promise you another exclusive though."

"Wait, you said I could ask you questions."

"You shouldn't have taken such a long time in the archives. Sorry, nothing doing."

Lon murmured something not publishable and hung up on me. I shrugged at the deaf receiver, wrote down the address Lon gave me, more for show than any particular purpose, and left the office with a simple, "See you later, sir." uttered to Wolfe.

When I arrived at The Landmark Tavern, I found it in an even more pitiful state than I remembered. Surprisingly enough, the problem wasn't in the furniture or facilities nor was it in he drinks - those looked good enough - it was in the sort of people that found themselves in such a place. The women were unremarkable in their looks and desperate in their actions and the men were vulnerable, seeing as they were already deep in an alcoholic haze despite the early hour. The whole business seemed to follow a simple rule - when a girl smiles at you while sitting at a bar, she doesn't have any money, if you smile in return, you do.

It is an understatement that I had caused quite a commotion amongst the tavern's patrons since my appearance wasn't what they were used to. At least five women turned my way and smiled and exactly seven men sent me an appraising look. I made sure my face stayed impassive, since I didn't want to end up buying drinks for anyone, and made my way over to the bar. The bartender didn't seem surprised to see a man such as myself in his establishment but then again, Mr. Dursley visited almost every day, so he must be somewhat used to finer tailoring.

"What do you want?" he asked me, not lifting his eyes from the drink he was pouring.

I cleared my throat. "I'd like to speak with Mr. Dursley, he around?"

That did gain his attention, however not the kind I wanted. "I don't know a Dursley," he denied.

I leaned forward, motioning for him to do the same. "Listen, you do this right and I might have a buck with your name on it. You either tell me where he is or ask him to meet me up here and I'll be satisfied."

He looked suspicious. "What do you want from him?"

I pulled out my wallet. "Alright, a fiver then. Agreed?"

He eyed the banknote I waved in front of his nose for a second before snatching it up and heading somewhere off to the back. It seemed ages before he came out, though the clock in my head told me that it had been barely 3 minutes.

"He'll see you now, come with me," he said, immediately disappearing again.

I didn't see a way to go around the bar, so I quickly climbed over it and went after the bartender. He led me through a dimly lit hallway, down a set of rickety stairs and into a large room with poker tables. I could pinpoint Mr. Dursley right away, he was tucked all the way in the back of the room, sitting at a table with three other men, laughing loudly. He looked up as I entered and his face contorted into an ugly grimace.

"Who are you?" he asked, raising his voice so he could be heard across the room, but still somehow managed to sound respectful.

I refused to take part in a yelling match, mainly because my voice doesn't sound as refined as usual when I raise it, so I walked up to him slowly, smiling politely all the way. When I was close enough for me to grab him in case he decided to run, I answered in a normal voice, "My name is Archie Goodwin, I work for Nero Wolfe, the private detective. Have you heard of Mrs. Boots' murder?"

Curiously enough, he looked relieved once I said that, and it was at that point that I realized the true state of his affairs. Mr. Dursley might have a very expensive car in a private garage and a very nice visiting card in the pocket of his specially tailored suit, but behind all that was a quivering man with gigantic debts from poker. Once he found out I wasn't here to threaten him, nor was I about to rip him a new one, he relaxed. Unfortunately for me, that also meant he lost all his fear-induced respect and didn't care one whit about me anymore. "I don't know a Mrs. Boots."

I grabbed a nearby chair and sat down onto it. "I'm sure she would've been disappointed to hear you say that. It was her money that bought you that new car after all, wasn't it?"

I had hoped he would regain a bit of his caution at that but I had no such luck. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Goodman. I don't know a Mrs. Boots," he repeated.

I didn't bother to correct him regarding my name because he'd done it on purpose anyway, and just carried on with my questioning, "We have a good reason to believe you had sold Isabelle down the river, which gives you a perfect motive for her murder."

"I didn't know her, I didn't rip her off and I certainly didn't kill her. Now scram."

I tutted at him. "That's no way to do this, Mr. Dursley. You are a suspect in a murder case, don't you think you should cooperate?"

"Oh I'll cooperate all right, if the dicks get a warrant that is. Until then, nothing doing."

I tried not to let my frustration show. "Where were you on Friday evening at ten to six?"

He actually looked thoughtful for a second. "I was at home, alone."

I sighed. "That doesn't help much. You think you could come to Nero Wolfe's with me and answer some other questions? I assure you that if you're innocent, Mr. Wolfe will find a way to prove it."

He barked out a short and completely unnecessary laugh. "I don't need to prove anything. Bugger off."

By this point, I knew I blew it, yet I'd kept on it for another ten minutes or so to keep up appearances before finally giving up. Mr. Dursley was certainly anything but innocent when it came to business, whether he killed Mrs. Boots however, was anybody's guess.

I left in a horrible mood, it was an understatement to say that I was livid. I was so riled up, in fact, that I kicked a dustbin on my way to the main street just to ease up some of the tension that had settled upon my shoulders. It was probably a very juvenile thing to do and I was grateful no one saw me do it, but it did help a bit, so I thought I could let it slide.


	6. Chapter 6

It wasn't until late in the afternoon that I was sent on another errand, this time to visit Major Sanchez. I rang the doorbell, waited whole thirty-two seconds for the door to open and then came face to face with a plump lady wearing a forest green apron and an honest-looking smile. I introduced myself and she let me in.

"Pardon my appearance, Mr. Goodwin, I am in a middle of baking. You want to see my husband, I assume? He's in the living room, through that door."

I nodded politely. "Thank you, Mrs. Sanchez, it smells wonderful."

She tittered cheerfully as disappeared in what I presume was the kitchen and left me alone to find her husband. I did find him as instructed, he was sitting in his living room, watching the afternoon news on an ancient-looking television and puffing away on a pipe. He was a good-looking man with black hair, an angled face and steady hands, who looked at least ten years younger than his wife.

"Major Sanchez? I'm Archie Goodwin, your wife let me in."

"Yes of course, come on in. I read about you in the papers, sit down Mr. Goodwin."

I smiled politely and took a seat. "I assume you know why am I here, then?"

He turned off the TV and looked at me with dark honest eyes. "It's about poor Mrs. Boots, isn't it. I was wondering when you'll question me. I had lunch with her the day she died."

"Yes, how do you know her?"

"Henry Boots is my wife's lawyer. She had hired him when her old firm partner tried to rip her off back in Washington - Maria has her own bakery, you know? She and Henry hit it off right away, we even spent a short vacation with him and his wife two months ago."

"What about Isabelle, did they hit it off too?"

Major Sanchez sighed. "Not exactly, no. My wife is not a vicious person but while she immediately took a liking to Henry, it was a different story with Isabelle. She was a bit jealous of her, I think. Maria is three years older than me, you know? She always worries about me leaving her for someone younger, and Isabelle was younger."

I nodded, politely refraining from commenting on how Mrs. Sanchez looked a lot more older than she really was, and continued on with my questioning, "Was there anything to be worried about?"

"Good grief, no. Isabelle was basically a child, I had no wish to become involved with her."

"Yet you had lunch with her."

"Yes but she was more like a daughter to me. She was sweet and cheerful, without a care in the world. A bit naive too, truth be told, but an absolute joy to be around."

There it was again. It seemed that anyone who ever came into the slightest contact with our victim was able to pick upon her naiveté. "So what did you talk about? With Isabelle?"

Mr. Sanchez frowned. "Now that you ask about it, that was a bit suspicious. Isabelle asked me about Henry's first wife, Eileen. She told me she wanted to know what was she like and what Henry saw in her. I think it was because of how much Henry had loved his late wife, Isabelle probably wanted to be a bit more like her."

"You never talked about her before?"

"No. Isabelle didn't want to hear anything about her the first few months her and Henry were married. Everyone talked so fondly of her that she must've been sick of it. That's why she hired another maid too, she said Henry's old one always kept talking about former Mrs. Boots."

I nodded. "You ever been to their new house?"

He shook his head. "No. Since Henry has moved to New York, I always meet with him someplace else. Henry is very fond of nice restaurants and if he can afford it, where's the hurt in that? Just two weeks ago we were in that nice French restaurant, Rustermann's."

I smiled at the mention of Wolf's restaurant. "Very well, so what did you tell Isabelle about late Mrs. Boots?"

"She was very different from Isabelle. Eileen was very levelheaded, always so calm and calculating. She never spent her money on anything she didn't necessarily need. She was a very kind person, never said anything bad about anyone. And clever, boy was she clever, I think that is the main reason Henry loved her so much."

I raised my eyebrows. "So why do you reckon he married Isabelle?"

Mr. Sanchez opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by his better half, "She had a lot of money, that's why. It's not a big surprise she managed to marry so early on. Women like me have to work hard to get something but all women like her have to do is click her fingers and everything is handed to her on a silver platter."

"You didn't like her much, did you?" I asked instead of commenting on her opinions.

She shrugged as she took off her apron. "Was never really fond of her, I admit. That girl had everything she could've asked for without ever even lifting a finger to get it. I like people who do honest work and if you ask me, no one who has more than half a million dollars to their name could possibly be honest."

I cleared my throat, making a mental note not to discuss my paychecks with her. "You think she wasn't honest?"

"She used Henry's grief after Eileen's death to her own advantage. I never trusted that childish little face of hers. She wasn't as innocent as everybody thinks."

Well that was a first. "You don't think she was a bit naive?"

Maria Sanchez chuckled. "Of course not. She always wanted to be famous. God knows what she wanted to do to achieve it. Now look at any newspaper in the city. She's in all of them."

I nodded politely. From what I knew about Mrs. Sanchez so far, I got the feeling that she was that sort of person who would envy you even the weather at your own funeral.

"Where were you at half past five on Friday evening?"

Major Sanchez frowned. "Are we suspected?"

I held my hands up in a placating gesture. "Not any more than others I've talked to, but I have to ask."

"I was at my club having dinner with my army mates. I was there until half past eight I believe."

We both turned to his wife then. She smiled at me. "I was here, baking cakes as usual. I do nothing else than bake these days."

"You've got any proof?"

She laughed. "Like what? A cake? Why is it that when someone tells you there are billions of stars in the universe, you believe them, but if they tell you there's wet paint somewhere, you have to touch it?" she asked patronizingly.

I frowned, wondering how our discussion about alibis ended up turning to wet paint, and decided to get us back on track, "There's no wet paint here, Mrs. Sanchez, only a dead woman. And I don't have to touch her to believe that."

If I thought my remark was going to disgust her and she was going to leave us in favor of her cakes again, I was wrong. She just giggled and sat down next to her husband. "Oh but I would so like to touch her. Just to make sure, you know? Don't you have to make sure, that the pulse is really not there?"

I shook my head. "Not really, with the knife sticking out of her, there wasn't a cat's chance in hell she was still alive."

Maria Sanchez shuddered but I couldn't tell whether it was in repulsion or pleasure. I decided not to try and find out and turned to her husband instead. "Well, I think I'll take my leave now. If you excuse me."

Mrs. Sanchez all too happily showed me the door and I couldn't say I was sorry to see it close behind me. I checked my watch and found out that Wolfe had probably retired to his room by the time I come home, so I didn't have to rush to give him my report. I decided to go to a cinema instead to see a movie Orrie had been very enthusiastic about, and when I finally came home two and a half hours later, head filled with damsels in distress and train accidents, I fell peacefully asleep.

 

The next morning, forty-five minutes after Wolfe descended from his plant rooms and seven minutes after I finished relaying my report from the evening before, the phone rang. It was Sabina Townsand, asking how far along were we in our investigation.

"We're working really hard and are expecting a breakthrough any minute now," I told her, lying through my teeth.

"Oh really? You are wonderful."

I immediately felt guilty. "As much as I would like to deserve to be called wonderful, I'm afraid I've just lied to you. Don't get me wrong, we are indeed working very hard, but any talk about a breakthrough might be a bit premature."

She sighed. "Oh well, don't worry, Mr. Goodwin, you are still wonderful."

I thanked her and hung up, smiling widely - looking like an imbecile, as Wolfe pointed out to me - and happily sighing. When I was still smiling and sighing two minutes later, Wolfe lost his patience, "For heaven's sake, Archie, stop gloating. It's not the first time a woman was awed by your personality."

"No," I agreed, "but it is the first time a woman told me I was wonderful after I admitted to have blatantly lied to her."

Wolfe pursed his lips, turned to his book and left me to my happy mood.

My gloating was interrupted by the doorbell. Saul, Fred and Orrie finally came back from their errands and while I had no idea by what orders they had been working and what they were supposed to find, I knew, as soon as I saw them walk through the door, they hadn't been successful. Saul looked as haggard as ever, Fred's shoulders were sagging with resignation and Orrie's smile was more forced than Al Capone's during his arrest.

"No luck, huh?" I asked them, still standing in the doorway.

Saul and Fred sighed, while Orrie just rolled his eyes.

"What were you working on?" I tried again.

Saul smirked. "You'll find out soon enough, now let us in you lazy bum."

I did as I was told, showed them to the office and then went to the kitchen to tell Fritz to make some sandwiches for our disappointed operatives. When I returned to the office, Saul was in the middle of his explanation, "-didn't find anything useful. We spoke with at least seventy people in Washington and yet we managed to come up with nothing. All we got was Mrs. Boots’ death certificate issued by a court in Washington last March, her last will - no surprises there - and lots of useless chitchat and rumors. Fred did come up with a photo from some six years ago that some old family friend gave him," he gave the picture to Wolfe, "but no luck actually finding her, sir."

I didn't know what he was talking about, until I took a look at the photo Wolfe handed me and I froze. It all suddenly made sense now, it was clear as day.

"Fred? Can you tell me, who's in that picture?"

He leaned over my shoulder. "It's from Mr. Boots' birthday party six years ago. That's Mrs. Joan Clarkson,” he pointed at a woman on the very left, “she lives in Washington and works as a secretary, next to her is Peter Peterson of Peterson's Papers - say that five times fast. Then it's Mr. and Mrs. Boots, Mr. and Mrs. Sanchez, he had sailed on the Titanic as a child, then it's Miss Olivia Kerby who owns the Stallion Stables in Jersey and her dog Flip."

Saul raised his eyebrows. "Flip?"

Fred shrugged but I didn't pay either of them much attention, instead I turned to Wolfe. "Sir?" I started and walked over to his desk, "I think I can finally shed some light into this whole business."

He adopted a surprised expression at my proclamation. "You can?"

"Yes, sir. I believe your suspicions were correct," I said and then proceeded to tell him what I realized. Once I shared my observations with him, his expression changed from understanding into one of triumphant glee. Not that the two looked much different but if you concentrated hard enough, you could distinguish them

"Call Mr. Cramer, Archie, we have a party to organize."

Once again, I did as I was told. Cramer was nasty on the phone at first, informing me that he was finally getting the warrant for Wolfe's arrest as a material witness and that I couldn't possibly tell him anything that would change his mind.

I told him that we knew who the killer was and we were prepared to share, but that if he insisted on the warrant, I couldn't give him any guarantees on how Wolfe would react. Cramer immediately changed his tune, saying that a warrant wasn't necessary and that we were all colleagues, after all.

"Yeah, yeah, one happy family. Just come to our brownstone at six o'clock and bring Purley along, I'm hoping for a bang."

He didn't ask any questions and said he'd do what I asked. Once I hung up, I called Miss Townsand to give her the good news. She told me I wasn't a liar after all and once again called me wonderful. I thanked her and went upstairs to my bedroom to gloat again.


	7. Chapter 7

At eight minutes past six o'clock, when everyone was present at last, I introduced the whole party to Mr. Wolfe, served drinks to those who wanted them, nodded politely at those who didn't and sat down behind my desk with a notebook in my hand in an attempt to look professional. The sitting order was nothing spectacular. Saul, Fred and Orrie were sitting on our yellow leather couch, Miss Townsand took the chair I put right in front of my desk, Inspector Cramer got comfortable in his favourite red leather chair as usual, and Purley Stebbins was leaning on the wall next to Wolfe's gigantic globe, also as usual. Behind Cramer, from left to right, sat Major Sanchez with his wife, both nursing a glass of sherry, Mr. Dursley - who had to be dragged to our house by the police - with a grim expression on his face and a tumbler of gin in his hand, and Mr. Boots who denied a drink but brought both of his maids, Miss Brewster and Miss Davenheim, with him for moral support. Finally, in the back corner of our office sat a lone figure of Lon Cohen, whom I had promised an exclusive.

I do admit that I had got into an argument with Wolfe about whether to let Lon come to our party or not, but since we owed him a lot more than a single bottle of cognac could settle, Wolfe had agreed in the end.

Now the genius was sitting behind his desk, head comfortably propped up on the back of his custom-made chair, silently observing the occupants of our office. They were nervous, chattering among themselves, trying to guess the reason they were summoned, making up theories as to who was the murderer.

Wolfe straightened up a bit in his chair, not making a sound but managing to quiet the room nonetheless. He made sure to stare at each and every suspect in the room for a few seconds, before speaking, "I invited you all to come here tonight for one simple reason. You are here to see me uncover Isabelle Boots' murderer and see him face justice."

Mrs. Sanchez leaned forward excitedly. "So is it a 'him' then?"

My employer smacked his lips in annoyance. "It was a mere figure of speech, Mrs. Sanchez. English is not a language that would allow us to comfortably use non-specific gender pronouns. I could call the murderer 'them' if you prefer but I'd rather not."

Maria Sanchez creased her forehead in thought. "So it is not a 'him'?"

Wolfe went to answer again but was interrupted by a calmly speaking major, "Let him speak, dear. You will find out eventually."

"Now that that's taken care of, let us go over the events of this Friday's evening. Most of you already know at least roughly what happened. Mrs. Boots, who introduced herself as Miss Sarah Parker, came to our brownstone at quarter past five and was shown to the front room, which is behind that door next to Mr. Goodwin's desk, by our cook, Fritz Brenner. At twenty to six, she went to the kitchen, which is at the end of the hallway on my left, to keep him company while he made dinner. When fifteen minutes later the doorbell rang and Fritz went to open the front door, the murderer knocked on our back door and Mrs. Boots opened it. From these facts we can deduce a few things. First," Wolfe lifted a his forefinger in the air, "the murderer knew up front where Mrs. Boots planned to spend her evening or he followed her here. Second," a middle finger joined the forefinger, "he had to be inconspicuous enough not to arouse any suspicion wandering around our neighborhood. And third," a ring finger this time, "he had to be an acquaintance or a friend of Mrs. Boots', because our back door is partly made of glass, so Mrs. Boots must've seen the murderer and she still let him in. She wasn't afraid of him then."

At this point Wolfe put his hand with all of its fingers down to rest it against the desktop and looked up to see what his audience thought of his performance so far. I'm not sure what he saw, but he must've been satisfied with it, for he picked up where he left off, "While Mr. Brenner was on the front porch, the murderer managed to shove Mrs. Boots back into the kitchen and use one of our kitchen knives to end her life. Now, I am almost positive that the murderer came prepared and had another choice of weaponry on himself to use, but he quickly made a very clever decision to use our knife. There's now nothing to link him with the crime scene."

At this point, Fritz came in carrying a platter with two bottles of beer and a glass. Wolfe nodded at him as he set everything down on the genius' desk and Fritz excused himself again. The whole office then watched as Wolfe systematically opened both of his bottles, swept the beer caps into his drawer, poured his beer and after the foam subsided, took a long gulp. Only then did he speak up again, "Let's move on to why Mrs. Boots felt the need to come and visit me. It is apparent she must've had a tremendous problem to come to a detective of my reputation and fees. She also must've been terrified of recognition because she refused to give Fritz her real name. She must've heard, read or seen something that made her realize her life was in danger. But despite all her caution and effort to behave normally, she must've done something that alerted her murderer."

Mrs. Sanchez gasped theatrically. "What was it? What did she find out?"

Wolfe decided to indulge her. "She found out someone planned to murder her."

The baker gasped again. "How do you know?"

"I doubt you'd be able to follow my reasoning, Mrs. Sanchez, but perhaps you'll be able to follow my tale. Mrs. Boots possibly overheard her murderer talking to someone about planning a murder and arouse as little suspicion as possible. She might've even thought the person had already killed before and she feared for her life. She decided to come to my office to consult me but failed to keep her suspicion secret. The murderer didn't have much time, so he came up with a rash plan, which - with a bit of luck - he then managed to execute perfectly."

I noticed Lon furiously jotting down everything that Wolfe was saying and I made a mental remark to remind him to mark his whole article as a quotation.

Meanwhile, Wolfe took another gulp of his beer. "Now, we already know in what way was the murder executed. However, we don't know who did it. For whom would it not be suspicious to stand at our rear entrance? Certainly not a gentleman like Mr. Dursley or Mr. Boots, neither a lady like Miss Townsand. It would have to be a workman or a workwoman. A person," continued Wolfe, "we never even thought to ask for an alibi. A person who could go around completely unnoticed. A person for whom it would not be suspicious to knock on our back door in order to talk to Mrs. Boots. A person like you, Miss Brewster."

At least four people gasped, including the accused maid, but Wolfe was not to be deterred, "There's nothing suspicious about a maid talking to her mistress. You could've simply been delivering her a forgotten object or a message. Yet all you delivered were mortal stab wounds."

Cramer took out a cigar and bit on it. "Why her?" he asked casually, obviously taking Wolfe’s accusations with a grain of salt.

"Yes, Mr. Wolfe, why me?" asked Miss Brewster, "I am not the only maid working at the Boots' household," she looked pointedly at Miranda Davenheim, who was squirming in her seat, "And I am by far not the only one who had the opportunity to murder that girl."

"Of course not," agreed Wolfe, "but you're the one who did. You followed your mistress to my home and you brutally murdered her in my own kitchen. You should feel honored I even let you in to partake in this discussion."

She laughed. "And evidence? Or a motive? Why do you suppose I killed her?"

"You're the one who always talks so fondly of Mr. Boots. You are the one who's in love with him. You thought that once Mrs. Boots was out of the picture, you could happily live with the man of your dreams and the money of his dead wife. You tell me if that's motive enough. As for the evidence, I am sure the police will be able to find the cab driver who brought you from East 26th Street to West 35th. Maids rarely ever travel by taxi, so he should have no trouble remembering you."

She blanched a bit but refused to back down. "You have nothing but theories."

Wolfe nodded. "That's what I'm being paid for, Miss Brewster, to have theories. And I have more of them if you're prepared to hear them," he didn't wait for an answer before continuing, "you weren't alone in all this. Your love wasn't as unrequited as I made it sound. Mr. Boots loved you back and knew exactly what you were planning to do. It was the two of you planning together that Mrs. Boots overheard."

I stood up in preparation of having to secure her accomplice but Mr. Boots did nothing more than raise his eyebrows. I stayed on alert though, not believing the mask of calmness he put on. There were a few moments of silence following Wolfe's declaration, which were finally interrupted by Miss Brewster again, "You're not as clever as you think, Mr. Wolfe. You still have no idea what really happened, do you?"

Wolfe finished his glass of beer and poured himself another one. "On the contrary, Miss Brewster, I am more clever than you can imagine. I know very well who you are. I've known for certain ever since Mr. Goodwin pointed you out in a photo to me, and I suspected you were alive ever since my conversation with Mr. Boots who had trouble talking about you in the past tense. I know you are no one else but the late Mrs. Eileen Boots, yet I will not acknowledge it."

Mrs. Sanchez stood up and exclaimed, "My God, it's true! I never would have recognized her in that uniform and the lightning here. You've changed so much, dear."

Everybody started talking over each other, some in outrage, some in amusement. It was Cramer who interrupted the commotion, "Wait!" he shouted and everyone fell silent again, "she's Eileen Boots? The dead Eileen Boots?"

Wolfe inclined his head. "Yes, the one and only. She never fell off any ship and she certainly never drowned. She merely put on a maid's uniform, came back with her husband and once she was proclaimed dead, she watched him marry a young, rich and very naive Miss Isabelle. They had planned to kill her and take all of her money from the very beginning." Wolfe paused to down the whole glass this time. "Miss Isabelle had most likely overheard her husband talking to his late wife and that's the reason she had asked Mr. Sanchez about her. She had suspected Eileen was alive and plotting with Mr. Boots against her, but it never even crossed her mind, the vicious woman could be her own maid."

Cramer stood up and shook his head. "But if she really is Eileen Boots, why wouldn't you want to acknowledge it? They were planning a murder like this ever since the fake death."

Wolfe closed his eyes and linked his hands over his considerable stomach. "Because Eileen Boots is legally dead and therefore cannot be prosecuted for murder, but Miss Brewster is not."

"Miss Brewster is not real though," said the inspector looking vilely at her.

Wolfe smiled. "No but I am positive they made her as real as possible, you should have no problems prosecuting her under her false name. With the cab driver's statement, Mr. Boots’ feeble bank account statement from the time before his marriage to Miss Isabelle and possibly some matching fingerprints to those you found on the rear door and in the kitchen, you should have enough for a court case. Once you've done all that, I can't imagine her willing to go down alone and she’ll drop Mr. Boots right in it."

Cramer nodded thoughtfully, most likely thinking about how he was going to break the news that he's just arrested a dead woman to the police commissioner, then turned to Purley. "Well, let's wrap them up and bring them both downtown."

It was precisely at that moment, that Mr. Boots finally lost his cool and jumped up from his seat with a guttural bellow, aiming for Wolfe. Before he could even reach the edge of my employer's desk though, my fist drew back on instinct and then met his face full force. I didn't even realize how hard I actually hit, before I saw him tumble to the floor, knocked out cold. By that time, it was already too late to feel sorry for him, so I didn't.

Cramer, who was standing right behind him, handcuffs already around Miss Brewster's wrists, looked me up and down in admiration.

"Feeling better?" he asked me with raised eyebrows.

I didn't deny it.


End file.
